SESSION THREE [Part Two]

At the village of Goshawk Pass, the ranger Orian arrives bearing news that the Black Talons have burned a farmstead in response to Cathal’s prosecution of them. Cathal, angry that he allowed himself to question his own instincts in warfare, starts to reprimand his councillors once again, but ultimately takes responsibility for his decisions. With no recourse left to them, the defenders of Wilder’s Gorge ride out from Goshawk in attempt to catch Eldric and his company in the open fields where they, as cavalry, will have a decisive advantage in any engagement.

They race south for three days through the rolling foothills of the Seamist Mountains. Reynhild dispatches Orian once again to find and tail the Black Talons. He returns on the third day with news that they have burned even more farmsteads, and have been killing the Wilders who live therein. A wave of fury and determination runs through the Fulcairn ranks and with a fresh burst of speed, they close to within eye-shot of the Black Talons.

The mercenary company has already reached the edge of the mountains and, spotting the Fulcairn cavalry bearing down, takes flight down a narrow hunting trail. Though reluctant to face a larger force in the narrow confines of the pass, Cathal weighs his advantages. First, having trained with them daily since returning from the lands of Rjurik, he knows the rare doughtiness of his warriors. Second, he reasons that the Black Talons, being a band of heavy infantry coming through an extended forced march will be the far more winded when battle is met. Third are Reynhild and her retainer, Orian. Their wilderness skills and familiarity with the land will be a huge boon in choosing where their fight takes place. Fourth, and perhaps most telling, is the mage, Mara Bersk, whose magic might win them the day on its power alone. With the support of his companions, Cathal orders the advance, leaving three soldiers to guard their horses.

Knowing they are outnumbered more than two to one, Lady Reynhild draws upon her considerable skills as a tracker, and her unknown past as a bandit, to close the gap with the larger band. The Fulcairn soldiers, having made most of their journey ahorse and being the lighter equipped of the two forces, make excellent time and are once again at their quarry’s backs within the day. Reynhild manages to guide her band to a narrow plateau, where they cut off the escape of the Black Talons and make ready for battle.

The Fulcairns, under cover of trees atop a wooded hill, don helm, heft bow and blade, and form ranks. Mara, the mighty mage, readies her staff and prepares to rake the villain and his minions with her eldritch powers. In the short, peaceful lull before the charge, young Cathal clutches Reynhild with a gentle hand.

“I love you sister,” he says, a wolf’s grin splitting his face, “I shall see you when it is done.”

With that, he turns to their band and speaks:

“These foreign villains have killed your people, and raped your land. We will suffer such transgressions no longer! Eyes ever on our prey!”

The ancient war-shout of house Fulcairn echoes from 20 mouths into the thin mountain air, rolling over the Black Talons below. Visors clatter shut, bright blades are thrust skyward, and the warriors, Cathal in their midst, charge valiantly down the hill, toward the larger mercenary force. Just moments before the Fulcairns crash into the shields of their foes, the morning is lit and all ears are pierced with the shriek of burning air as Mara hurls a flickering orb of eldritch fire just behind the Talons’ front line. The orb erupts into concussion and conflagration and men are hurled, smoking, from their feet with screams of unbearable pain. Reynhild and her Ranger, hidden in the trees and flanking the Black Talons send deadly shafts to wreak havoc on those still standing. Cathal and his warriors smash into the scattered lines, hacking and battering at whatever mercenary flesh they may see.

The Talons, blackguards though they be, are no strangers to battle, and even shaken by the unnatural force of Mara’s magic, they counter attack with fury. The battle on the plateau pushes forward and back, neither force giving an inch of ground. Reynhild, from her perch above the melee, makes note that the Awnsheglien, Eldric the Fair is nowhere to be seen among the fray. Ever vigilant, she searches the trees and catches sight of the giant bearing down on the wizard’s position, where she is guarded by three men at arms. Reynhild calls out to Mara and to Cathal to warn of the danger, but finds herself similarly engaged, as three of the Talons ascend toward her through the trees. She feathers one of them with practiced grace, then drops her bow and draws forth her long knives. She calls her great Cairnhound, Callum, to her side and makes ready to fight.

Mara, hearing Lady Reynhild’s warning, shifts her focus to Eldric and his cadre of three mercenaries. Her bodyguards round and charge to meet the villain’s attack, catching the measure of his fury on their shields. Eldric gravely wounds one man in the exchange, but the Fulcairn soldier stands strong despite this and blocks his path to Mara. The wizard rushes down the hill some distance to create space, and begins unleashing her magic once again, bright, living fire searing more mercenaries in the melee.

Cathal, judging Mara’s danger the greatest threat to their victory, rushes like a bolt from Cuiraecen’s fist to engage the Awnsheglien. The two of them clash violently, neither gaining ground, as Cathal shouts all of the rage and frustration of the past month into his enemy’s face. In response, the giant lands a ringing blow on the young lord before being twisted away from him by the tide of battle.

Reynhild and Callum face down their two remaining foes together, darting amongst them with blade and fang as though appendages of a single terrible predator. Reynhild bewilders her foes with speed and pragmatic ferocity, finding one’s back and throat with both of her blades. He spins to the ground in a spatter of hot blood, and her cold rage turns to the last man, Callum snarling at her hip.

Mara, her attention split between the fight on the hill and the one on the plateau, almost fails to notice two Talons rushing from the melee to strike at her. She fills the air with deadly magic, tearing the life from one man with arcane gesture and echoing incantation, but the other bears her fury on his shield and closes too quickly upon her. Luck, however, is with the mage, for Cathal, now separated from Eldric the Fair, has seen the attack coming and rushes past Mara to meet the mercenary mid-stride. Their exchange is abrupt, as Cathal’s greatsword, serpent-like in his hands despite its length, easily passes the Talon’s shield and transfixes the man on its razor point. The young lord pauses for a breath to offer Mara encouragement, then rushes to meet Eldric once again.

The second of Reynhild’s foes proves to be more troublesome than the first, and he defends himself skillfully despite being flanked by the deadly Lady and her mighty hound. Reynhild circles and dances, allowing her opponent no purchase herself. They lock in combat for two long minutes before a darting bite from Callum sinks home, causing the Talon to yelp in surprise and offering Reynhild the opening she needs to sink one of her blades to its hilt through a gap in his armour. The mercenary quakes and rattles his last breath as he sinks to the ground to die. The Lady Reynhild cleans and sheathes her blades, then retrieves her bow to help with the fight on the hill.

On the plateau, the warriors of Fulcairn, who are still outnumbered despite the havoc Mara has wreaked, begin to turn the tide on the Black Talons, and press them sorely. They are filled with the strength of cause and principle, their spirits bright, while the Talons’ will has started to fade.

Meanwhile, Eldric and Cathal have met once again. Eldric knocks the wounded Fulcairn soldier to the ground, but in doing so opens himself to an attack from Lord Fulcairn, who staggers the giant with a resounding stroke of his greatsword. Eldric, incensed, focuses all of his size and dark, divine power on the young lord. Despite his remarkable skill, Cathal is outmatched by the larger, more experienced Awnsheglien, and is knocked senseless to the dirt by a mighty backhanded blow from the hammer-head of Eldric’s war-pick. The Awnsheglien, intoxicated by his triumph, lifts the huge bastard blade in his right hand to run the fallen lord through and steal the strength of his divine blood.

Reynhild, seeing Cathal wounded and about to be slain, nocks an arrow and cries out in fury. Her bowstring snaps and her arrow whistles hungrily toward the giant, its bodkin point piercing the mail on his neck and biting deep into the muscle. The force of the shot knocks Eldric off balance and spoils his strike, but while he spins to face whoever spoiled his victory, the sky blackens, the earth rumbles, and the shadow of his doom falls upon him.

Mara, exhausted from the use of so much arcane power, has finally tapped into the golden strands of energy that thread the earth beneath Wilder’s Gorge. Its voice speaks to her, offering itself to her gladly. She is surrounded by a twisting cloud of magical force in the form of fluttering, golden moths. Her mouth and eyes shine and her voice booms like thunder, reverberating as it breaks over the mountains. A jagged spear of incandescent heat forms in her hands and she hurls it forth with the might of the gods. The Awnsheglien is impaled. Screaming inhumanly as he dies, Eldric’s once beautiful form shrivels and melts into wisps of dark smoke.

Reynhild, her heart threatening to burst with worry, rushes to Cathal’s side and removes his battered helm. Beneath it, the Lord is stunned, but alive, blood running from a gash where the hammer struck. Reynhild sighs with relief as Cathal’s eyes flutter open. She helps him to his feet, and clasps his face between her bloodstained hands, staring through tears into his storm-blue eyes.

“I love you too.” Reynhild whispers, and pulls him close to her, pressing her lips to his. Their embrace lasts for what seems an eternity before they part.

“Let us finish this, my lady.” Cathal breathes, only to her.

They turn to face the battle below them and, with new strength in their hearts, charge forth, shouting in unison:

“EYES EVER ON OUR PREY!”